


Out of the Darkness

by Andromache_42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester's Terrible Communication Skills, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Magic and Magic Users, Mark of Cain and the Darkness make appearances, Mutual Pining, Non-Penetrative Sex, Quests, The Power Of Love, bed sharing, mage!Castiel, mercenary!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 06:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20305045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andromache_42/pseuds/Andromache_42
Summary: When Darkness falls . . .Dean Winchester hasn’t seen his father in more than a decade, but now Dean’s the only one who can stop the terrible force John has unleashed. He’ll have to face his past and embrace a side of himself that he thought he’d left behind long ago.Archmage Castiel of the Society of Letters senses the evil creeping through the Veil and the safety of the Kingdom hangs in the balance. Even if it weren’t, Castiel is determined to protect the captivating Dean at any cost. Together, they must uncover the secrets of the realm and Dean’s own bloodline if they can save the world and each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone, and welcome to my entry for this year's Destiel Harlequin Challenge (2019)! I loved all of the fics from the previous challenge, and was so excited to take part in this year's event! Here is the summary I chose as my inspiration for this fic:
> 
> Princess of the Sword 
> 
> When darkness falls…  
As the mercenary daughter of Gair, the black mage of Ceangail, Morgan is the only one who can stop the terrible sorcery her father unleashed. To do so, she must race against time and find the spell that will allow her to close the well of evil he opened. But that quest will lead her to places she never dreamed existed and into a darkness she would give anything to avoid…  
The magic rises.  
The fate of the kingdom of Neroche is intertwined with the closing of Gair's well. Miach, the archmage of Neroche, is determined to help Morgan find what she needs, not only because the safety of the Nine Kingdoms hangs in the balance but also because he will do anything to protect her. Together they must search out the mysteries of Ceangail, and the dangers of Morgan's own bloodline.  
Now, to rescue the kingdom from total ruin, Morgan and Miach have only each other to trust, heart and soul…
> 
> Thank you so much to the mods for running this fabulous challenge this year! I hope you guys continue to run in for years to come. Please go check out the other fabulous fics in this year's collection!!
> 
> Thank you for reading!

_The night is still as he makes his way toward the center of the wood. Any sign of life—the songs of nightingales, the buzzing of locusts, the friendly chirp of crickets, the bubble of the far-off brook—were suddenly extinguished what feels like leagues ago. Just ahead, a tree with a familiar sigil marring its ancient trunk. He reaches out, hand steady, and places his palm against the wood._

_Nothing happens._

_He’s prepared, but not for that, so as he crosses the line of the circle of ash trees that rings an open glade, he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop._

_As soon as his boot crosses the border, it’s as though someone dropped him deep underground; it’s dark, darker than it should be, and there’s intense pressure against his eardrums, his head aching as though gripped in a vise. He clasps his hands over his ears, throbbing under the pressure, and he’s tempted to throw out a quick spell, something to illuminate the darkness or alleviate the crushing pressure that’s steadily moving from his head and into his chest._

_But he’s prepared. He knows better than to cast a spell in this place._

_He reassures himself that the physical sensations he’s feeling aren’t real, that nothing that happens to him here is _actually_ happening, but it’s still almost too difficult to bear to move one foot in front of the other. His body feels ten times heavier than normal, and it only gets worse as he slowly makes his way to the center of the meadow._

_A deep rumbling starts as he finally, slowly, reaches the center, which quickly becomes grinding, crunching, shrieking, as though the earth itself were heaving up beneath him, but he pushes on. The pressure in his ears finally bursts, and he can feel the trickle of blood down his jaw as the sound around him grows muffled. He grits his teeth against the pain but also sighs in relief; the pounding in his head subsides a bit and he’s able to peel open his eyes._

_The night around him has given way to an eerie glow emanating from deep within the open maw before him. His work had led him here, but it hadn’t prepared him for the way he would feel when he reached it._

_The sigil on his arm burns when he grips the ring of rough-hewn stone that serves as the barrier to the abyss and he nearly screams aloud at the pain, but he cannot hesitate._

_Only one spell can be cast here._

_He holds his hand tight over the sigil on his arm, repeating the words that have been seared into his consciousness since he was a boy, growing in strength in the deathly still air around him. He finishes with the finality of a death knell, raising his knife to slice straight across the sigil, bisecting it across the middle, and watches as his blood drips down to greet the pulsating light deep within the well._

_For another moment, nothing happens. Perhaps he’s failed. Perhaps this was all for nothing, and he isn’t the last in a long line—_

_Bright light bursts from the well, lightning forking up into the sky, followed by a rush of thick, black smoke knocking him back onto the hard ground with a thud that forces the remaining air from his lungs. He watches it swirl above him, obscuring the now-visible stars, filling the perfectly innocuous clearing before engulfing him, smothering him._

I’m sorry_, he thinks before the darkness overtakes him and he knows no more._

_Plink_.

Castiel’s head jerks up from his hand and he blinks against the soft light in his study. The book in front of him is still idly turning pages, the fountain pen scratching notes on the parchment beside it, but clearly, due to the fog in his mind, Castiel had dozed off. He yawns, stretching, searching the room for whatever shook him from his daze. Nothing immediately jumps out, but a glance at the clock on the wall shows just how late (or early) it is. He waves his hand in the direction of the book and the pen and they immediately stop their movement. Castiel hisses a curse as the pen drops onto the parchment and splatters his notes with ink.

“Time for bed,” he mutters to himself, using the pen and a quick spell to extract what ink splotches he can without completely erasing the notes. Satisfied that it’s as clean as it’s going to get, he extinguishes the lamp on his desk as he goes to turn in for the night.

Castiel’s study is deep within the labyrinthine corridors of the Society of Letters’ Bunker, insulated from errant magic both originating within and without so that his spell casting is not disturbed. As the society’s Archmage, he’s responsible for maintaining the history and legacy of the organization. Typically that translates to a fancy term for “record-keeping” and “archiving,” but the mysterious glass instruments that flicker on their shelves as he passes belie a much more interesting past.

They are, as ever, delicate monuments to days of myth and legend, from a time when the Society served a much more active role in the protection of the Realm. Now, Castiel is summoned to the palace to bless weddings and namings, for ceremonial festivals and other pomp and circumstance. These instruments are unchanging curiosities from a different time. Except . . .

“Strange,” Castiel breathes, stopping to peer closer at the one on the end. It’s the simplest of all of them, a crystal-clear blown glass bell jar encasing a long cylinder with a thin, red rod in the center. Except now, the cylinder is full of swirling red smoke, the rod snapped in half and leaning against the cylinder’s wall. It’s all enclosed, so Castiel isn’t worried about the smoke escaping, but he can’t begin to fathom how it broke.

He carefully places a hand near the jar, checking to make sure there isn’t any kind of charge surrounding it, any indication of what it might mean or whether there is any immediate danger from the object itself. There’s a powerful seal surrounding it, and it all appears to be in place. Satisfied that it isn’t going to cause any issues in the Bunker, he continues down the hall toward his rooms, but then . . . something gives him pause. Perhaps there is something he’s missed in the archives about these instruments. It’s always been strange that there were no records left behind by previous Archmages about their creation, their purpose. Much has been written about the quest to discover their meaning, but anything about their origin should be kept somewhere within the Bunker, if it exists. He turns left, instead of right, to find a text in the library that might give him insight.

Despite all rumors to the contrary, the Mages that reside in the Bunker keep regular hours, meaning the dim light and hushed voices emanating from the library are highly irregular. The image of the swirling smoke rises in Castiel’s mind as he moves toward them. None of the security measures have been activated, so that means it must be one of the Brothers, at least; perhaps a Novice attempting to study in the wee hours when they can have the space to themselves? Out of bed after curfew would mean a reprimand, so Castiel understands the urge for secrecy.

“. . . don’t care what you think happened, you’re an idiot if you think I’m going to let you go alone!”

“No fucking way, Sam, you’re staying here. You’re lucky I stopped here at all—”

“Yeah, sure, like you weren’t gonna come by anyway to _take_ a bunch of stuff first.”

“Please, give me a little credit. I’m just borrowing it.”

Castiel almost stumbles on his feet as he comes to a stop. He knows those voices, though he resolutely ignores how his pulse quickens when he realizes who they are. But he’s concerned by the talk of stealing, and why on earth . . .?

“Dean? Sam?” Castiel asks, announcing himself before he rounds the corner. He trusts the brothers, considers Dean a friend, but Dean carries weapons and is known to stab first and ask questions later. Sam is the more level-headed of the two, however as a newly-initiated Brother Castiel doesn’t know him as well as he knows Dean.

The brothers are standing on opposite sides of one of the small tables clustered in the library, a single lamp lit between them. Dean, the elder, is wearing a worn pair of trousers and a light linen shirt, clearly dressed for travel. Sam, on the other hand, is dressed in his nightshirt with the monogrammed gray robe that all initiates receive slung haphazardly over his shoulders. A large canvas bag is laying open on the table between them, stuffed full of weapons, books, and other objects that Castiel can’t discern from his distance. Both of them are staring at Castiel, frozen in place.

“Cas,” Dean manages, glancing at Sam. “Uh, hey . . .”

“Visitors after hours are against the rules, Sam, as is wandering out of bed after curfew,” Castiel says, moving closer. Dean shifts closer to the table with the open bag, while Sam turns to face Castiel fully, putting himself between Castiel and his brother.

“Sorry, Castiel,” Sam says, though he sounds more harried than contrite. “I was just trying to get my brother to leave.”

“And I was just on my way out,” Dean interjects. Sam turns back to face him and they appear to have a brief discussion without words. Castiel moves even closer. As he approaches the table, he can read the embossed text on the spine of the book. He raises an eyebrow at what he sees.

“Dean, if you’re going to take the Agnes text, you’ll need the primer to go with it,” he says bluntly. “Of course, the only copy we have is here. In the Bunker. Like the Book of the Damned itself.”

Dean looks sharply at Castiel, then rushes to close his bag. Castiel wishes he wasn’t so affected by those startlingly green eyes. “Sorry, Cas, but I need—”

“You need to steal priceless, dangerous artifacts from the Society of Letters right under the Archmage’s nose?”

Dean looks like he’s about to answer, but Sam cuts across him. “I’m borrowing it, sir, since I’m going with Dean.”

“No, Sammy, you’re not!”

“Yeah, Dean, I am, because for some reason you think—”

“Enough!”

The brothers fall silent at Castiel’s sharp word. Castiel takes a deep breath. He isn’t sure what’s going on here, but he has a gut feeling that perhaps all of the strange occurrences tonight might be connected.

“An instrument of undocumented origin has alerted me to . . . something. I have no idea what. Would either of you know anything about that?”

“I don’t know—”

“What’s it look like?”

Castiel looks shrewdly at Dean. A mercenary who often takes contracts to transport rare magical items and missives of a delicate nature for the Society, Dean is a shrewd man but he hasn’t proven himself a dishonorable one. They’ve forged a long friendship, though they have little in common, but Castiel can’t allow himself to be distracted by his feelings for Dean if something is truly amiss.

“It’s a cylindrical tube within a glass bell jar. There was a red rod in the center, but that appears to have broken and there’s a sort of red smoke swirling inside.”

Dean’s expression hardens. “It’s sealed?”

“Yes.”

“Completely?”

“Yes, Dean, I am rather competent at magic.”

“Sammy?”

“On it.”

Sam takes off down the corridor toward the gallery. Dean moves back to stuffing various tomes and tools into his bag. Castiel moves closer to him, but it does nothing to dissuade him. He places a gentle hand on Dean’s wrist.

“You are aware that I am still here, aren’t you?”

Dean doesn’t even slow down, shaking Castiel’s hand from his arm. He seems to debate between two books, one held in each hand, before tossing one onto the table and the other into his bag. “Don’t really have the time for a debate with you, Cas.”

“I could very easily stop you, Dean.”

Dean cinches his bag closed and looks up to lock eyes with Castiel. “Then do it.”

It’s weakness, the clenching in his stomach and racing of his pulse that happens every time he’s this close to Dean. Besides the fact that Dean is a sword-for-hire and Castiel is a man in a position of great ancestral power, there’s the fact of their long, complicated history that should stop him from feeling the way he does around Dean. Regardless, he’s affected, and he considers stopping him with magic, for a moment, though he hadn’t really before. There’s desperation behind Dean’s usually confident eyes, an uncertainty Castiel isn’t used to from him.

“What do you know?” Castiel asks.

Dean hesitates, and before he can even begin to reply, Sam comes rushing back into the room.

“It looks sealed, Dean. I think it’s just a warning.”

“Yeah, I figured, but better safe than sorry. You know this means you have to stay here.”

“I know,” Sam huffs.

Castiel’s head is swimming. “Would one of you mind filling me in on what is happening? Dean?”

Dean looks at him strangely for quite a long moment before he manages, “Sorry, Cas, I gotta go. Sam?”

With that, Dean turns and heads out toward the Bunker’s back entrance. Castiel moves to stop him, but he’s held back by Sam’s hand on his shoulder. Anger flares hot in Castiel’s stomach, and he turns sharply on Sam.

“What in the name of the gods is happening here?” he demands, clenching hard on his hands to stifle the power flaring in them. Sam, for his part, looks appropriately contrite.

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, sir, and I know you’ll have to punish me after this, but . . . This is worth it. I hate that Dean has to go alone . . .” He trails off, studying Castiel’s face. “You’ve always cared for Dean, haven’t you?” he asks curiously.

“I—yes, I mean, both you and your brother mean a great deal—”

“Gods, I’m an idiot!” Sam exclaims, running his hands through his hair. “Castiel, listen to me. There’s something terrible coming, but I can’t tell you what. You’re going to have to trust me, trust Dean, but—"

“But _what_?” Castiel growls.

“Holy shit,” Sam breathes. “Holy _shit_! I can’t believe I didn’t . . . _we_ didn’t . . .” He wipes a hand down his face, disbelief marring his features. “I know none of this makes any sense right now, and I wish I could tell you, but Castiel, you have to go with Dean.”

Dual sensations war for dominance within him at Sam’s words, the first a sinking dread that drops the bottom out of his stomach, the other a swooping visceral _need _to go after Dean, to protect him. “I can’t go without knowing . . .” he stops, licking his lips. “What is going on?”

Sam shakes his head. “You just have to follow him. Don’t let him leave you behind.”

It takes just over ten minutes for Castiel to gather what he needs. As long as they don’t venture too far from the Bunker he can tap into his magic to do simple things like hygiene and changes of clothes, so he just packs a small satchel full of herbs and instruments he might need on the journey. He’ll need to hurry if he wants to beat Dean to the gate.

“You’ll have to convince him to let you go with him,” Sam says while Castiel tightens his boots.

“How can I do that?” Castiel asks.

“He’s going to realize the same thing I did. Just stay with him until he does.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Just remind him about Colette.”

“Colette? What does that mean?”

Sam is just shaking his head again. “I can’t tell you, Castiel, I’m sorry. But whatever you do, don’t leave him.”

Castiel bombards Sam with instructions on how to delegate the daily running of the Bunker while he’s rushing out of the door. It’s two weeks until the Autumn Festival, and he won’t be needed for anything public until then. Hopefully, whatever is happening with Dean won’t take that long and he can be home in time to perform his duties.

“If anything, I’ll just glamor myself into you,” Sam jokes.

“I certainly hope we won’t be gone that long,” Castiel replies. Sam doesn’t say anything, which, when he looks back on it later, should have been a sign.

The city of Lebanon is still sleeping outside of the Bunker as Castiel walks the dark streets, following the fastest route to the closest city gate. He hopes that Dean was taking the most convenient route; if not, he’ll have to expend some energy on a tracking spell, which he doesn’t want to do until he’s left the city walls unless he absolutely has to.

As he approaches the gate, it becomes clear that his luck is holding for the moment. Dean is there, currently engaged in a heated argument with the gate guard. Castiel can suspect what this is about; the gate guards are trained to sense magical artifacts, and Dean doesn’t have a recent travel license to take the books and items he has in his bag out of the city. His first instinct is to go and settle the argument by saying that he’s travelling with Dean; as the Archmage he would be able to give Dean the authority to carry the items. Revealing that he’s leaving the city also is not a great idea, so he concentrates on casting a glamour over himself before moving toward the gate.

It’s not a great spell, and it won’t last long, but it does change Castiel’s general appearance and he’s able to transform his travelling clothes into a set of plate armor. It’s heavy, and he isn’t used to walking in it, but he has enough military training to be able to hold himself upright and stride toward the guard.

“I have this man’s credentials,” he calls, his voice high and unfamiliar to his own ears. Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“You sure? Dean’s got quite a reputation ‘round here,” the guard says. He’s older, with a pointed face and hooded eyes.

“Yeah, sure, a reputation for kicking your ass, Kubrick,” Dean snarls. Kubrick moves as though he’s going to strike Dean, but thinks better of it with witnesses.

“I have a missive from the Archmage,” Castiel says, removing a piece of blank parchment from his pocket and handing it to the guard. As Kubrick looks it over, Castiel murmurs a quick incantation to cast a veil over his eyes. Kubrick blinks a few times, moving the parchment closer and further away, but after a long moment while Castiel holds his breath, he shoves it back into his hands.

“Fine,” Kubrick says, and moves back to let Dean and Castiel through the gate. Kubrick slams it with a clanging finality behind them.

It’s been a few years since Castiel has left the city, and he’s almost forgotten how closely the forest surrounds Lebanon. It’s quiet, an almost enchanted silence that presses in on all sides. Castiel desperately wants to cast a mage light so that they can see in the dark, but they’re still too close to the walls and Dean is already charging on ahead. Castiel rushes after him as quickly as possible, nearly tripping over his feet in the cumbersome armor.

How long will Dean let him follow?


	2. Chapter 2

Irritation simmers under Dean’s skin as he hears Cas clunk along behind him. He hadn’t been sure when the strange soldier stomped up on his little altercation with Kubrick, but the moment he’d muttered that incantation and the shiver of Cas’s power resonated in the air, there hadn’t been any mistaking it. He should have expected something like this from Cas and Sam, but he’d been hoping they would just trust him like they say they do.

It’s not that Dean can’t make use of Cas’s power, or Sam’s encyclopedic knowledge of magic, but this whole freakin’ thing is just the culmination of generations of . . . _family_ idiocy that only he holds the key to undo. Anybody who comes along is just asking to be killed.

“Dean . . .”

The sound of that gravelly rumble behind him tells Dean that Cas has dropped part of the glamor, but he can still near the metal scrape of plate armor. A rush of fury washes through him and he turns to face Cas.

He’s standing there in that stupid armor, face shadowed in the dim very-early-morning light, and Dean feels a rush of affection that he stomps down and replaces with the fury from before. Yeah, fury is a much safer emotion.

Dean reaches into the gap in the plate armor under Cas’s arm and grabs hold, hard. He watches with satisfaction as Cas stifles a yelp, dragging him into the thicket lining the roadside. Cas clanks like a pile of rusty buckets while Dean shoves him further under cover. When he finally catches his balance, he wheels on Dean, but Dean gets there first.

“Listen, you arrogant ass, I don’t know what in the five hells you’re thinking coming after me like this, but if you have any idea what’s good for you, you’ll pack up and head back,” he hisses, leaning in close. In the dim light, Cas’s eyes are deep pools of midnight blue, staring back at Dean with a hard expression Dean knows all too well.

“I happen to be Archmage of Lebanon, which you might have forgotten, and I am not _useless_. Something terrible is going on and I refuse to let you—”

“_Let me_? For the love of . . .” Dean takes a deep breath, but plows on before Cas can interrupt him again. “There is something I have to do, Cas, and I’m doing it alone. This isn’t something . . . I just have to, okay? Can you trust me, for once?”

Something unfamiliar flashes in Cas’s eyes before he narrows them. “I am the Archmage of Lebanon,” he repeats and Dean resists the urge to groan. “If there is something evil threatening the kingdom, I am obligated to act, Dean. You can try to leave me behind, but I promise I will find a way to follow.”

Dean blows a sharp breath through his lips, considering his options. He can leave Cas behind easily enough; he knows the terrain and he’s better travelled. Besides that, he’s been preparing for something like this since he set out on his own, and despite Cas’s superior magic ability, Dean is far better equipped for the task.

Cas looks ridiculous standing in the moonlight, arms crossed as best he can in the clunky armor he’s still wearing, eyebrow arched as he watches Dean decide. Under other circumstances, that eyebrow would be _doing things_ to Dean, but as it stands . . .

“Okay, fine,” Dean says inexplicably. “But you don’t ask questions, you do as I say, and if I tell you to get the fuck out and leave me behind, you do it. Are we clear?”

Cas clearly wants to argue, but holds back. He inclines his head and replies, “As crystal.”

_Great_, Dean thinks. _We’ll see how long that lasts_.

“We can stick to the road until dawn, but we’re gonna need to cut across country in the daylight.”

Dean hitches his bag higher up on his shoulder before looking Castiel up and down again. “Did you even bring anything?”

“I can manage,” Cas responds, surly. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Okay, then, Mr. Wizard, keep up.”

He tries to ignore the prickle on the back of his neck that he knows means Cas’s gaze is on him as he treks back to the road.

The King’s Roads are well-paved and generally well traveled during the daytime hours, so Dean tries to take advantage of the easy terrain to get as far from Lebanon as he can in the few hours left before sunrise. Much to Dean’s surprise, Cas doesn’t have a difficult time keeping up. He ditched the armored look about an hour ago, which is both good and bad for Dean’s sanity. The armor’s noise was going to drive him crazy, but now Cas is only dressed in a loose shirt tucked into his brown trousers and traveling boots. It’s the most dressed-down Dean has seen him in their entire acquaintance and it’s . . . doing things to his heart rate that aren’t just due to their walking pace.

Under normal circumstances, Cas would be a terrible traveling companion; he’s a silent, heavy presence by Dean’s side. But given the situation, and their destination, Dean manages to find comfort in the fact that he has the most powerful mage in the kingdom by his side.

“Dawn is approaching,” Cas says quietly, breaking the silence. Dean glances up, and sure enough the sky is starting to lighten.

“Shit,” Dean mutters. They’d covered some good ground, but unfortunately they hadn’t gone as far as he was hoping. “Okay, we’re heading pretty due southeast. If we make good enough time, we can camp outside Fallstown before dark tonight.”

“Do you know your way in these woods?”

Dean scoffs. “How d’you think I get your shit from one place to another and I ain’t been robbed yet? I know every smuggler hole from here to Manhattan this side of the river. Stick with me, Cas, I won’t get you lost.”

Cas squints at him—which is definitely one of the things Dean thinks is endearing about him but is definitely _not_ something Cas ever needs to know—then says, “Manhattan?”

Shit. “Uh, yeah. You send stuff to the University there all the time. C’mon, we gotta get goin’.”

Cas hesitates, but follows after Dean into the underbrush.

The terrain in the eastern half of the kingdom is mostly farmland with some stretches of trees the locals refer to as “woods” in between them. Dean’s walked this way often enough that he knows how to avoid the property lines so he’s not arrested for trespassing. Each farm provides enough of a landmark that he can navigate the old poachers’ trails and cross the open landscape quickly on his own. Cas manages to keep up, which again surprises the hell out of Dean.

“How the hell are you Mages in shape?” he blurts out around midday. Cas is crouched near a stream, splashing the cool water on his face while Dean fishes a couple of pieces of jerky out of his bag. He offers one to Cas who accepts it gratefully. Dean diligently diverts his gaze from the one stray drop of water rolling down Cas’s neck. Cas sits and tears into the jerky, his thighs straining against the confines of his pants. Dean gulps down some water from his jug to distract himself.

“We aren’t as sedentary as you perceive us to be. Using magic efficiently requires us to be in excellent physical shape.”

“Yeah, that’s why Sammy’s so obsessed with rabbit food.”

“It’s true that a Mage needs to obtain most of their energy through plant sources, but there’s no evidence that a purely vegetarian diet increases one’s power. I wasn’t aware that Sam subscribed to that school of thought.”

“Nah, he’ll eat meat just fine, he’s just always been more into the green stuff. I guess that’s why he got the magic and not me.”

Cas tilts his head and Dean resists the urge to grin. “Magic ability is hereditary, Dean. If Sam has access to it, so do you.”

Dean shakes his head, stuffing another hunk of jerky into his mouth. “Nope. Always gotta be an exception that proves the rule.”

“There’s never been a case—”

“Never a _documented_ case.”

“It’s _impossible_.”

“Well, you’re lookin’ at me, so, not impossible.”

“Dean—”

“Not arguing anymore, Cas,” Dean says sharply, standing and tossing his bag over his shoulder. “Time to move on.”

Cas lets the subject go and stays quiet again through the afternoon of their journey, but that doesn’t stop the buzzing under Dean’s skin. He flexes his fingers to keep them from grabbing his forearm like he wants to. The burning is getting stronger, and he doesn’t want to stop to think about what that means. If nothing else, it means they’ve gotta be faster.

The sun is setting behind another long stretch of trees when Dean finally decides to stop. He takes Cas into a small copse of closely-grown oak trees where he stretches his traveling cloak out between their trunks. Cas helps him tie it off so that it creates a canopy. Under that, he spreads the bedroll while Cas gathers a few sticks to start a small fire.

“Are we able to have a fire?” Cas asks, his hands held over the pile of tinder he’s gathered. Dean shrugs.

“I don’t think anyone’s following us,” Dean says, sitting on his bedroll and pulling out a couple of pieces of jerky. “Just don’t want to announce where we’re going. Especially not with you here, too.”

Cas nods, then flicks his fingers and sets the small fire ablaze with a spark. Dean will never not be fascinated by watching people perform useful spells like that.

“I don’t have a spare mat,” Dean says, handing Cas his portion of jerky. Cas settles in on the ground across from Dean before chewing thoughtfully.

“I’m fine on the ground,” Cas replies. Dean wants to argue, but realizes he doesn’t have a good response that doesn’t equate to _let’s share the bed, Cas_ and that’s . . . not a great idea.

“It’s your back,” he says instead, leaning against a tree.

The sun has fully set before either of them speak again. Dean’s so lost in thought it takes a minute for him to register what Cas asks.

“What are we heading toward?”

Dean sighs. “I thought I said not to ask questions.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. In the orange glow from the flames, his eyes are deep pools of midnight blue, and if Dean didn’t know for a fact that mages can’t read minds, he’d be pretty sure that’s exactly what Cas is trying to do. “Seriously, Cas, you don’t like it, you can head back right now. That’s the better choice, anyway.”

“I’d like to know what kind of danger we’re walking into.”

“Mortal.”

Cas blinks like he’s surprised. “And you expect me to not have any information? No details?”

Dean sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You knew what you signed up for. I can’t tell you anything about this, Cas—”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Both!” Dean exclaims. “Look, I can’t say I’m not grateful that you wanna help, but I just . . . I can’t . . . Fuck!”

The low burning in his arm that he’d been tuning out all day flares suddenly, blindingly hot, and Dean can’t resist slapping his hand over it, pushing hard against the pain. Tears sting his eyes as he breathes through it, trying to focus on letting it ease, but if anything it gets even hotter. He bites back a soft whimper, eyes clamped shut, which is why he jumps when a gentle hand touches his shoulder.

“Let me help.”

He can’t remember answering, but he must have, because suddenly he’s filled with a gentle, soothing sense of calm, radiating from his right shoulder down into his arm and eventually through his whole body. It eases the burn until it fades to almost nothing before the palm starts to retreat.

“No—” Dean gulps out, his eyes flying open as he grasps at Cas’s hand. Cas freezes, blue gaze locked on Dean’s. The firelight dances in them, far too close to be polite. Dean’s heart races, eyes darting down to Cas’s lips, which are _right fucking there_, and . . .

“Uh, sorry,” Dean says, releasing Cas and pushing back. “That was, um . . . what the hell did you do?”

“A healing,” Cas replies, still crouched on Dean’s side of the fire. “You were in immense pain, so I performed a simple healing spell to try to relieve it.”

Dean brushes his arm absently, the dull burning pain reduced to what it had been this morning, shortly after they’d left Lebanon. It’s too much to hope that it will last long, but he should be able to get some sleep tonight, at least. He’s suddenly exhausted.

“Thanks,” Dean mutters.

Cas chews on his bottom lip, and Dean wants to free it with his fingers. Or pull it gently between his own teeth.

“Who is Colette?” Cas asks. Dean’s eyes dart up to meet Cas’s.

“How do you know that name?” Dean demands.

“Sam told me,” Cas replies, undeterred. Dean pushes away from Cas and toward his bed.

“We should sleep.”

Castiel doesn’t move right away, but as Dean busies himself getting ready for bed he shifts and says, “I’ll set some wards around the perimeter so we aren’t caught unawares.”

Dean nods. “That’s . . . that’s a good idea, Cas.”

Cas is still watching him curiously as he crawls into his makeshift tent and curls up on his bedroll. He’s vaguely aware of Cas muttering spells to himself as he walks a large circle around the tent before he drops off into a dreamless sleep.

The deep rumble of thunder rouses Dean sometime in the early hours of the morning. The burning in his arm has returned, though nowhere near as intense as before Cas healed him. The thunder isn’t the only thing that woke him; the drumming of fat raindrops on his cloak is loud over his head. He reaches up to check to make sure it isn’t getting soaked enough that he’s going to end up rained on, when he realizes it’s bone dry. It’s strange, because his cloak is waterproofed, but not nearly enough to stay dry in the pouring rain. He sits up and looks around their camp, searching for Cas.

“Cas?” he calls out, but there isn’t a response. He crawls to the edge of his shelter and peers out into the dark and rain, trying to pierce the shadows to find the mage. “Cas, are you there?”

“Here.”

Cas is huddled under a tree nearby, a cloak of his own held over his head against the rain. He must’ve waterproofed it the same way he did Dean’s, because he’s dry enough under it, at least. Still, it’s stupid for Cas to be out in the rain when there’s plenty of space under the tent.

“Get under here, you idiot,” Dean says, too tired to argue.

Cas must be tired, too, because he doesn’t even bother putting up a protest of his own before moving from his makeshift shelter and into Dean’s.

“Dude, don’t get mud in my bed,” Dean mutters. Cas is, mercifully, dry, but he’s shivering enough that Dean grabs the cloak from his hands and tosses it over both of them. There’s hardly enough room for them under the tarp, but Dean ignores the heat radiating from Cas’s body next to him as he turns over to face away from Cas so he can at least attempt to go back to sleep. Cas must have the same idea, because Dean feels Cas’s warm, solid back against his as he settles in.

“Thank you,” Cas says quietly. Dean ignores the way his body lights up at the contact.

“Just get some sleep,” Dean replies, and then hopes that he can heed his own words.

Dean’s entirely too comfortable for having spent the night on his bedroll in the woods when he wakes. He’s warm, dry, and, rarest of all, he feels _safe_. For a moment he lets himself bask in it, in the moment before he wakes fully: a pair of strong arms wrapped tight around him, a firm chest pressed up against his back. Cas is breathing deeply, still asleep, so Dean lets himself indulge for a moment.

When Dean and Sam showed up penniless and covered from head to toe in the dirt and grime of long travel and poverty on the steps of the Society of Letters bunker six years ago, the last thing they’d expected was to be greeted by the Archmage himself. Cas—_Castiel_, then—had been unassuming, clad in simple Mage’s work robes, imposing, and _kind_. Dean couldn’t remember the last person that had shown them as much kindness as Cas did that day. Probably Bobby. It was over a bowl of hot broth and good, rich bread in the Bunker’s kitchen, watching Cas move gracefully and efficiently through the room, that sixteen-year-old Dean fell in love.

Over the years since, Dean did everything he could to make sure those feelings went away. When that didn’t work, he focused all of his energy on making sure Cas never found out. He didn’t want to risk Sam’s position in the Society, much less ever put himself in a place where he could watch the warmth and kindness fade from Cas’s eyes.

Behind him, Cas begins to stir, stretching his legs a little as he nuzzles into Dean’s neck from behind. A fluttering thrill runs through Dean, a little flicker of desire flashing through his gut, but then he gathers himself and moves away. Cas clutches at him, trying to pull him back, but Dean can’t handle that.

“Hey, Cas, time to wake up,” he says firmly, pushing Cas’s arms off of him so he can sit up. Cas grunts and frowns as Dean moves. It’s cute, and Dean busies himself with starting to get ready for the day. Slowly, Cas’s eyes open a crack, blinking at the bright light.

“Dean?” he croaks, deep voice rough with sleep. Dean suppresses a shudder.

“Yeah, buddy, we gotta go,” Dean manages, untying the cloak from the trees and shaking it out before throwing it over his shoulders. “If we make good time we can be in town by lunch.”

Cas rubs a hand across his eyes, visibly trying to shake himself from sleep. “Town?” he asks. Dean rolls his eyes and chucks Cas’s cloak at him.

“Fallstown,” Dean says. “Got a contact I need to see.”

They pack up their meagre camp quickly and set off down the path. The trail is still a little damp from the rain the night before, but not wet enough to stick to their boots. The leagues pass in silence like the day before, but Dean feels Cas’s presence even more. His whole body prickles when Cas leans close where the path grows narrow, and he’s paying less attention to his surroundings than he is to the steady presence of the mage just behind him. They make good time, and as they pass over a rise just before midday, the squat buildings and twisting dirt streets of Fallstown come into view.

“Gotta go to the other side of town,” Dean says, leading Cas on a path back toward the road. “We’ll have to take the road for a bit.”

“You said we weren’t being followed.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. Far’s I know, nobody knows what’s happening but me and Sam.”

Cas frowns. “It would be prudent to let me know what we’re facing. Not everything, but enough to be prepared.”

“Look, I’m letting you come with me, but what I gotta do . . . I gotta do alone.”

“Dean, I am the most powerful Mage in the country. Whatever is going on, I’m not proposing that you let me handle it, or help, but I could help _you_, whatever you need to do. There are so many things that magic can do—”

“Oh yeah, I know just what magic is capable of,” Dean snaps. He flexes his right hand, the pain still dulled from whatever Cas did to it the night before. He knows that won’t last much longer, the closer they get.

Cas is clearly itching to ask, but he holds his tongue as they travel around the outskirts of Fallstown. It doesn’t take them long to come up on a weathered, square building along the side of the road. Dean gestures to Cas to follow as he stomps up the steps and into the dim space.

“Cas, welcome to the Roadhouse.”


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Castiel notices about the interior of the tiny inn is that it’s far better kept than the exterior. In fact, upon glancing at the tables arranged in a clever way that makes the most use of the limited space, it’s meticulously clean and maintained. Lamps fill the mostly-empty space with a cheery glow, the wood surfaces gleaming with polish and not a speck of dirt. Castiel almost worries about tracking in mud and dust from the road, which is strange for what is essentially a glorified roadside tavern.

“With you in a second!” a deep female voice calls from behind the long bar. Dean walks up to it and slides onto a stool, dropping his bag onto the floor next to him. After a moment, a tough-looking woman with serious features and brown hair pulled back in a severe bun ducks out of a door, wiping her hands on a rag. She notices Dean and stops in her tracks. Castiel freezes where he stands.

“Hey, Ellen,” Dean says, a little sheepish. The woman, Ellen, continues to stare at him for a moment, then goes back about her business behind the bar.

“Boy, you’re a fool,” she says, bustling around moving objects from one place to another.

“Aw, come on, Ellen, don’t be like that. You know I gotta—”

“And if you tell me ‘you gotta’ you’re _stupid_ and a fool. Years later and you’re still fighting John’s battles—”

“Hey, Ellen, this is Cas,” Dean cuts across her, pulling Castiel up to the bar. “And he’s pretty hungry, since we got up at the crack of dawn to come see you. Matter of fact, so am I, and we’d be pretty grateful if you had anything laying around we could eat.”

“My foot in your ass is what you can eat,” Ellen grumbles, rolling her eyes, but she does move back into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with two thick hunks of bread and a slab of cheese.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, pulling a plate toward himself. He’s planning on standing to eat, but Ellen huffs and taps the bar in front of him.

“Sit. Just ‘cause this one doesn’t have manners doesn’t mean none of us do.”

Dean digs into his own meal, chewing noisily next to Castiel’s elbow. In their entire acquaintance, Castiel has always known Dean to be comfortable in any setting. Technically, as a mercenary, his sword is for sale to the highest bidder, but Castiel has never known him to take any kind of military contract. He will sometimes disappear for months at a time, but he always comes back, willing to take a contract from the Society for what is surely a lower price than he could earn with his sword. Dean is the type that is at ease everywhere, and has never met a stranger. He certainly charmed Castiel when they met; the brothers were just a pair of ragged boys when he opened the Bunker door to them that fateful day. Dean’s grown into an incredibly beautiful young man, the sun streaking gold in his hair and dotting freckles across his cheeks. He’s always seemed so carefree on the surface, though the circumstances of his arrival in Lebanon are a deep mystery that belie some possible tragic or unsavory history.

His presence of late makes Castiel’s insides squirm.

A soft clearing of the throat startles Castiel from his reverie, his gaze clearing to realize he’s staring openly at Dean. He looks quickly away only to meet Ellen’s knowing eyes and raised eyebrow.

“You boys staying long?” she asks, eyes lingering on Castiel for another moment before moving over to Dean.

“Long enough to find what we need. Hopefully just a day.”

“Well, be good and don’t you dare leave a mess down there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ellen watches them eat while she bustles around behind the bar, cleaning and stocking. No other patrons come or go the entire time, and Castiel is bursting with questions Dean has told him not to ask. He wonders if maybe he could get a word with Ellen while Dean is distracted with the contact he needs to meet.

“I’m headed into the basement,” Dean announces, pushing away his plate and running a hand through his hair. “You coming, Cas?”

“Of course,” Castiel replies, finishing his own final bite of cheese.

“Great,” Dean says, then starts walking to the back corner of the room, near the cold fireplace. He shifts a rug aside and then lifts open a trapdoor hidden in the floorboards. Castiel moves to follow him, but is stopped by a firm hand on his elbow.

“Now, Dean might not want to tell me nothin’, but I gotta ask what in the hell the Archmage of Lebanon is doing showing up here looking like he’s been dragged through muddy country by my eldest son,” Ellen says quietly. Castiel blinks at her, considering denying it, but Ellen does not seem easy to fool. If he’d wanted to keep his identity secret, he should have ensured it with a glamor. Dean trusts her, so Castiel must trust her.

“Your son?” he manages. Ellen purses her lips, looks like she’s going to ask something, then takes a breath and seems to reconsider.

“Dammit, Dean,” she mutters, letting go of Castiel’s arm. “He got dealt a rough hand, Cas. Him and Sam both. I raised ‘em, they’re mine. But there’s . . . he’s got dark stuff in his past, I won’t lie. He thinks he’s gotta fix things he ain’t ever been responsible for and it ain’t my place to tell you. But I will tell you this, fancy Archmage or not: you hurt him and I’ll kick your ass.”

“I’m here to protect him,” Castiel insists, and knows that it’s true. He may have followed Dean out of an obligation to find out what might be threatening the kingdom, but he’s also always been drawn to him. He wants to keep Dean safe.

“That’s adorable,” Ellen drawls, “but it ain’t what I mean.”

Castiel blushes, but doesn’t deny what she’s implying. “How can I help him, Ellen?” he implores. She regards him with her deep brown eyes.

“Like I said, Dean’s had it rough, I’m sure you know. There’s . . . seriously dark things haunting him. He’s got a quest, and men with a quest . . . I knew his father, and he had the same darkness haunting him, too. If Dean thinks things have changed, then I can’t tell him otherwise. Don’t let him leave you, Cas. He might not know it, but he needs you.”

“Sam told me to tell him ‘Colette,’ but I don’t know what it means. I don’t know how that’s supposed to let him trust me.”

Ellen looks surprised, her expression softening. “Don’t let him leave you,” she repeats.

A chill runs through Castiel at the words. “I promise,” Castiel says. Ellen huffs a laugh, breaking the moment.

“Sure, kid,” she says, going back to scrubbing the already-clean countertop. “He’s gonna wonder where you got to.”

Castiel recognizes that he’s being dismissed, so he turns to follow Dean through the trapdoor.

“Dean?” he calls out as he descends the ladder.

“Yup!” Dean answers, his voice strangely muffled in the underground space. Castiel reaches the end of the ladder, turns, and lets out a small gasp.

He’d been expecting some kind of root cellar, perhaps a dirt-walled storage room, but instead he’s standing at the edge of what can only be described as a cramped, well-lit _library_. Someone has carefully lined the walls in waterproofed, polished wood panels. There’s a low level of magic emanating from them, so clearly they were erected by someone with magical skill. The floor is made of well-worn wooden planks, again protected by some elemental spell that is keeping them dry and clear of any mildew or rot. Shelves are stuffed haphazardly throughout the room, each of them crammed so full of books that they’re overflowing. If it was spread out in a space as large as the Bunker’s library, it might even dwarf their public collection. There are far more protected texts stored in the Bunker’s vault, of course, and by the look of these volumes they might belong better there than in the open library. Some of them are new, but many of them have weathered leather spines and a few are splattered with suspicious stains that Castiel would rather not think about. The whole room buzzes with unfamiliar, but not unfriendly, magic. It doesn’t feel quite like Sam’s, but there’s a particular edge to it that feels similar. It’s earthy, stubborn . . . Castiel is pretty sure he’d like the caster, if they ever met.

“Dean?” Castiel calls out again, his voice muffled by the walls, the books on their shelves, and the magic holding the room together.

“Back here,” Dean replies, and Castiel navigates his way through the shelves to find Dean pulling the tomes he’d taken from the Bunker out of his bag and stacking them on the table. The Book of the Damned sits in the center, while Dean starts digging through the shelves, examining books and either tossing them to the side or adding them to the pile on the table.

“Can I help you find something?” Castiel asks. Dean looks back and forth between two books in his hands before shaking his head and putting them both to the side.

“Nah. Bobby’s organizational system is a mystery to everyone who doesn’t know him. It’s here somewhere.”

“I could cast a locator spell—”

“Don’t!” Dean exclaims, holding out a hand to stop him. “Bobby’s got a built-in safety system. If anybody tries to use magic in here, the whole place goes up in flames.”

“He’d destroy his collection?” Castiel gasps.

“Better than falling into the wrong hands. There’s some dangerous shit in here, Cas.”

“There are dangerous things in the Bunker, too, but we don’t protect them by threatening to destroy them.”

“Yeah, well, this room’s probably got more dangerous books in it than the entire Society of Letters’ collections combined.”

Castiel wanders around the shelves, lifting a hand to hover over their spines. He reads an ancient, faded title and withdraws his hand quickly. “Dean, there’s a copy of the Black Grimoire here.”

“Not a copy,” Dean replies distractedly.

“Not a . . . Dean, who owns all of these?”

“My uncle Bobby. He’s the contact I came here to see. Aha!”

Dean carefully extracts a narrow volume from between two other books and sets it carefully on the table next to the Book of the Damned. Castiel leans closer, squinting at the title.

“Dean.”

“Yeah.”

“_Dean_.”

“What?”

“How does your uncle have a copy of the Codex?”

Dean ducks his head and sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “Cause I got him one from the library at the University.”

“Dean, I don’t think I need to tell you how—how—_ill-advised_ all of this is—”

“Nobody’s forcing you to be here, Cas. You don’t like it, feel free to head home at any time.”

Castiel strides across the room in three steps to grab hold of Dean’s shirt, bringing his face in so they’re nose-to-nose. Dean’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, but Castiel is not distracted.

“This is _not_ a game,” he hisses. “You are messing with volatile, ancient magic you have no idea the depth of the danger. I did not earn the title of Archmage lightly. You should show me some respect.”

“I’ve been dealing with volatile, ancient magic my whole life,” Dean spits back, pushing Castiel away from him. “You don’t have a clue what I know and what I don’t.”

“Then tell me,” Castiel says sadly. Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously and Castiel sighs. “Tell me, and perhaps I can help you.”

Dean opens his mouth, as though to speak, but then a gruff voice says from the entrance, “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Dean snaps his mouth closed and turns away from Castiel. “Bobby.”

“You idjits done yappin’? I got something you should see.”

Dean casts one last glance at Castiel, then drops his books and goes to meet Bobby at the top of the ladder. Castiel takes another look around before following behind.

Upstairs, the Roadhouse is just as empty as it was earlier, and Castiel just catches a glimpse of Bobby and Dean disappearing through a door on the opposite side of the room from the bar. He rushes to follow, then down a hallway into a cramped office. It’s cluttered and feels like the magical signature in the storage room downstairs. It’s clear from the man’s presence that it was Bobby’s magic. It’s an honest, comforting feeling, and Castiel can’t help but trust him.

“So stealin’ the Book of the Damned wasn’t enough, you had to kidnap the Archmage, too?” Bobby asks, sinking heavily into a chair behind a large wooden desk.

“Kidnap?” Dean exclaims. “Are you kidding? He’s the one who won’t leave me alone. He’s practically a stalker.”

“There is clearly something magical endangering the kingdom and it is my duty to seek it out and destroy it.”

“I keep telling you, Cas, this isn’t your fight!”

“Enough!” Bobby snaps. He waves his hand at two chairs in front of his desk, forcing them into the back of Dean and Castiel’s knees so that they sit. “You gonna listen to what I got to say, or are you gonna keep bitchin’ at each other?”

“Cas doesn’t need to be here.”

“Like hell he doesn’t. You’re tellin’ me you’ve got the Archmage of Lebanon on your side and you ain’t gonna use him?”

“Bobby—”

Bobby gives Dean a look, and he immediately clams up. Castiel looks between the two of them, Dean clearly itching to continue his rant, and a wry smile twists the corner of his mouth.

“You must remember to teach me that trick,” Castiel says. Dean glares at him.

“I’m only gonna tell him what he needs to know,” Bobby says while Dean glowers. Bobby turns to face Castiel. “This idjit is leading you two into something so dark and twisted it ain’t even in any of the regular books. But due to factors that’ve been in play longer than the two of you’ve been alive, Dean is . . . _tied_ to it, we’ll say.”

Dean makes a noise of protest and stomps his foot.

“Now, on account of some bull-headed _pride_, Dean ain’t gonna tell you why. All I know is the answer is in the Book of the Damned—”

“Which no man living can read,” Castiel interjects.

“Huh, that’s funny, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I still got a pulse.”

Castiel drops his jaw at Bobby’s statement, but Dean takes a moment longer to realize what he’s said.

“You can read it?” Dean asks, the spell lifting as he calms down. Bobby nods.

“Yeah. So what do you say, fellas? Wanna figure this out once and for all?”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean can’t believe how much Bobby’s been able to do without the book, and now that he has it it’s only a matter of time until they figure out how to counter whatever John’s done. With Cas refusing to stay away from the research process, it’s getting more difficult to keep the truth from him, but Dean has to admit that he’s actually been some help.

Not that there’s much left to figure out. Bobby’s got detailed maps and incantations and all they really need is a specific translation from the Book of the Damned, which Bobby is leaning over while Cas hovers behind him.

“How were you able to decipher the codex?” Cas asks, straining to look over Bobby’s shoulder as he works.

“Hard work and a little luck,” Bobby grunts. “You’re standing in my light, boy.”

Dean laughs quietly to himself when Cas awkwardly shuffles away but keeps his eyes glued on the pages from a distance. Bobby’s wearing gloves and turning the pages carefully as he moves from one segment to another. If Castiel could hang from the ceiling to keep track of what Bobby’s doing, he probably would.

“You finished with those charts yet?” Bobby barks. Dean lifts his calculations up.

“Yup. According to this, the convergence happened at the last full moon.”

“That was three nights ago, if you’re talkin’ about the peak. Why haven’t we seen any effects?”

“Maybe he managed to contain it. Maybe that’s what Cas’s glass thing meant.”

“What thing?”

Castiel jumps back a bit when Bobby turns around to face him. “In the Bunker there’s a collection of magical instruments whose origins are unknown. The other night, I was in my study late when I heard glass shatter. When I walked past, one of them had swirling red smoke inside. It had been clear before.”

“Shit,” Bobby curses. “And it was just . . . swirling?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies, tilting his head like he does when he’s confused. “Was it supposed to do something else?”

“We gotta hope that means John contained it,” Bobby says, ignoring Castiel. “I don’t know how much time it gives ya, but it’s better than none. That man might be a dumbass, but at least he had a little bit of sense at the end.”

Dean swallows hard, his jaw growing tight. “Think he’s dead?” he asks.

Bobby looks at Dean with a look so soft it makes Dean squirm. “Gotta be prepared for it.”

Dean nods, shuffling a few maps around. “Hey, Cas, come help me with these calculations.”

Eager to help, Castiel moves over and helps Dean with a few star chart configurations while Dean firmly ignores Castiel’s attempts to catch his eye.

“Dean . . .” Castiel begins.

“You boys mind bringin’ that map over here?” Bobby says, voice tight.

Dean looks up at Castiel, eyes flickering between Castiel and the map he’s holding. “You got somethin’?” Dean asks, turning away.

“I guess we’ll find out,” Bobby says, restrained. He moves the books out of the way so there’s room on the table for the map. It’s a map of the central part of the kingdom, with major ley lines indicated. A major nexus crosses directly over Lebanon. Bobby draws some symbols that Dean doesn’t recognize, then sprinkles a powder over the whole map and gives it a shake. The particles settle into the ley lines, making them appear fuzzy, while he pours a mixture around the edges of the map.

“Extinguishing spell might be handy,” Bobby says before the map suddenly catches fire. Dean cries out, reaching for it, but Castiel grabs onto his shoulder on instinct to hold him back. Dean watches in shock as the map burns until suddenly the fire disappears, leaving behind a small scrap of the map, untouched.

Bobby peers it at, then whistles low.

“What?” Dean demands.

“Got a location,” Bobby says simply. Dean shrugs Castiel’s hand from his shoulder and pushes forward.

“What, seriously? Bobby, that was too easy.”

“You call twenty years’ worth of research and experimentin’ _easy_? Just ‘cause you’ve been tramping all over the country—”

“Bobby.”

Dean’s blood runs cold. He’s staring down at the map fragment and has gone completely rigid. “Dean?” Castiel asks. Bobby just claps Dean on the shoulder. “Do you have a location? What’s going on?”

Dean lets out a barking laugh, running his hand over his face. “Yeah, we got a fucking location. Stull Valley.”

Castiel is very still as he asks, “Are you certain?”

Dean’s face is grim. “Pretty fuckin’ certain, Cas.”

“What do we need to prepare? I might accept that you won’t tell me what’s happening, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going in to whatever we’re meeting completely unaware. Let me help you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head vehemently. “No,” he says with finality.

“This isn’t a negotiation, Dean. You can’t stop me.”

“Want to watch me?”

“This is ridiculous! I am not a child, and you are not a Mage! The level of magic you’re bound to encounter, especially in a place as steeped in darkness as Stull Valley!”

“Tough shit, Cas, because there’s no way in hell I’m letting you come with me!”

Castiel growls in frustration. “This self-sacrificing streak of yours is ridiculous. Do you think your life is worth so little that you would throw it away? You don’t have to do everything on your own!”

Dean laughs mirthlessly. “Tell that to my entire life!” he spits.

“Stop!”

Dean startles as Bobby shouts them both down. He looks furious. “Stow your crap, _both_ of you! Castiel, I know you have power in Lebanon, but guess what, this ain’t Lebanon. And the further you get from your elemental source, the weaker you’ll get, right?” Castiel frowns.

“It’s irrelevant. My aptitude far outweighs any reduction of power that might come from distance.”

Bobby nods. “Good.” He turns to face Dean. “You’re takin’ him with you.”

“What?” Dean splutters. “You can’t be on his side here!”

“Tell him everything, don’t tell him anything, whatever, but you’re gonna need a Mage, Dean.” Bobby holds up the page he was working on translating over the last few hours. “You’ve gotta use this incantation, and it’s gonna take a Mage a helluva lot more powerful than me to get it to work.”

“I know the incantations, Bobby, they’ve been crammed in my head since I was a kid!”

“This one’s different. Gotta be cast by an outsider. So it looks like you’ve got your Colette.”

Dean wants to argue, but he knows Bobby’s right. Why does everything good about his life have to get completely ruined by this stupid fucking curse?

“_Fuck_!” Dean shouts, throwing a book across the room. The pain in his arm flares hot and he grits his teeth against it. He reaches to press a hand to his forearm before taking the spell from Bobby. “And this’ll fix it?”

“It’s the only thing I got. If this don’t work, we got a lot bigger problems on our hands.” He laughs. “Or maybe we won’t have to worry about anything again, if you look at it that way. You wanna stop it, get to Stull as fast as you can. _With_ Castiel.”

Dean can feel Cas’s eyes on him, boring holes into his skull. This was his own damn fault. If he hadn’t developed fucking _feelings_ for Cas, he could’ve stayed out of it. Cas reaches out and takes the spell from Bobby to look it over. He squints at it. “Is this Enochian?”

“Early Enochian. Pretty much unreadable. I got a pretty good linguistic breakdown a few years back that made a lotta this possible. Read it out loud; you don’t gotta know what it’s saying, just pronounce it exactly like it’s written there.”

“I studied a little bit of early Enochian. I know the basic syntax and pronunciation patterns.” He hesitates, glancing over at Dean, determination in those stupidly blue eyes. For the first time since they left the Bunker, he looks vulnerable and Dean is struck with a visceral need to protect him. “I’ll follow your lead, Dean,” he assures him. Dean swallows hard, mouth firmly shut, but he nods.

“You listen to me, and if I tell you to run, you run,” he says, repeating his words from their first night.

“If you tell me to run, I run,” Cas agrees. “But you run with me.”

“Much as I hate to break up this moment,” Bobby grunts, “we got some stuff to do before you go, and you should probably rest and leave early.”

Ellen and Bobby do their best to distract them, but Dean can hardly think for the buzzing in his arm and in his head. He only has one mug of beer before he declares it’s time to sleep. Cas follows him upstairs where the room Ellen reserves for him and Sam has been made up for them. Dean takes the bed he always does, nearest the door, while Cas slips into the bed by the window. There’s tension in the room as Dean attempts to fall asleep, but whatever is on Cas’s mind, he doesn’t voice it either.

After a fitful sleep, they’re loaded up with supplies from Ellen, then given an array of salves and potions from Bobby packed tightly into magically condensed pouches that hang from their swordbelts. Dean has his sword strapped to his hip, but he also makes sure to check his other weapons are secured to his person, too. He lends a sword to Cas to carry while also hoping that any conflicts they find themselves in leave his magic available to use.

They take off across country again. Stull Valley is a small, black mark on the map just north of Lawrence, which is at least a day’s journey from Fallstown. They travel in silence, cast in a small glamor from Cas to help them blend into their surroundings. Dean is still convinced they’re not being pursued, but it is better to not announce their comings and goings across the kingdom. Dean is well-known in these parts, and though Cas is reasonably certain most of the folk in the area have little cause to recognize him, it’s better safe than sorry at this point.

They stop for lunch around midday in a little shelter of trees not far from the main road. They’re leaving the open fields and farms behind for a little more closely forested land. Dean’s temper is growing shorter the closer they get to the dark spot on the map, and he can’t keep his other hand away from the mark on his arm.

“Is it bothering you again?” Cas asks. Dean releases his forearm and goes back to picking at his lunch.

“Dunno what you mean,” Dean replies, but he shakes his hand out roughly before digging back into the hand pie Ellen had packed for him.

Cas purses his lips and watches him. Dean can feel his eyes on him even as he resolutely ignores the Mage. “Dean, how long have we been friends?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, heart rate picking up. “You think we’re friends, Cas?”

“It’s a serious question. How long have you considered me a friend?”

Dean looks away. “Since you let Sam into the Society,” Dean mutters to his pie. Cas nods.

“It wasn’t long after that when I began to consider you a friend as well. There was a day when you accepted a contract from us that I knew wouldn’t have gotten your usual fee, but you said you ‘owed me a favor’ and I realized that you owed me no such thing.”

Dean snorts. “I was flirting with you, Cas,” he laughs, remembering the day well. Cas smiles.

“I’m aware of that now,” Cas says. “But you were also kind, and selfless, and I wanted to protect you. I’ve always wanted to protect you, though you’ve never given me any clue as to what in your past you were running from.”

That makes Dean look up. “Running?” he manages. Cas tilts his head.

“Dean, you showed up barefoot and filthy, dragging your younger brother along, on the steps of a Society of Letters stronghold looking like you’d been hounded from Hell itself. I’ve never asked for your story, but I feel . . . I can’t protect you if I don’t know what you might need protecting from.”

Dean shoes the last bite of his pie into his mouth and says, “Don’t need protecting,” around it.

“I know,” Cas accedes. “But I think, perhaps, I might be able to take part of your burden.”

The wall Dean put up between the two of them has never felt more fragile as the long pause that follows. Cas deserves to know. He _needs_ to know. If they’re walking into the darkness, what does Dean have to lose?

“Do you know the tales of Winchester Wood?” he asks quietly.

“I’ve heard of it,” Castiel replies cautiously. “It’s long been destroyed, I thought. Stuff of legend now.”

“Well, what if I told you it was real? All of it?”

Castiel blinks at him, his incredulity expected. “It would be surprising.”

Dean clears his throat, settling back against his tree and crossing his arms tight over his chest. He glares at Cas, a challenge. “You gotta know, everything I’m tellin’ you now you take to your grave.”

Cas nods. “Of course, Dean.” Dean relaxes slightly and sighs.

“A long time ago, there was a valley lush and full of life,” Dean begins. “It had some of the most fertile farmland and beautiful rolling hills in the entire kingdom. Right in the middle was a thick forest, all owned by the local lord. His tenants were kept happy by fair conditions and high crop yields. It flourished so easily that surrounding landowners and lords were convinced it had to be magic. But the lord who had the land swore there wasn’t any magic in his bloodline.”

“I know this story,” Cas breathes. Dean keeps going.

“One night, while his two eldest sons were hunting alone in the thickest part of the wood, they were set upon by a large pack of hounds, so big and vicious that the few survivors of the attack claimed they had to be hellhounds. The brothers were torn apart; there was nothing left to bring back to the father. That night, a dark cloud gathered over the entire valley, turning every field barren and every forest dark and impassable, trapping the residents in their homes and isolating it from outside help. By the time anyone discovered what had happened, the entire valley was dead. Just, gone, Wiped off the map. All that was left was a big, blank smudge on the map.”

“Stull Valley,” Cas replies. Dean nods.

“Stull Valley.”

“All of that is interesting academically, Dean, but what does it have to do with what we’re heading toward?”

Dean regards him for a moment, then his expression grows hard. “My full name is Dean Winchester,” he says stiffly. “Winchester Wood is my family estate. The darkness in Stull Valley is my inheritance.”

That leaves more questions than it answers for Cas, Dean knows. “You said you don’t possess magic.”

“I don’t,” Dean insists. “I know, we’ve been to all the experts, every shaman, witch-doctor, hoo-doo bullshit, and they all got nothin’. My brother, he’s got it, my dad, but me . . . I’m just the freak.”

Cas reaches out to lay a hand on Dean’s arm. It’s warm and comforting, and Dean revels in it. “You are not a freak, Dean.”

Dean snorts. “Try telling that to my dad.” He snaps his jaw shut and pulls away from Cas. “Time to go,” he says, standing up and adjusting his weapons. Cas rises with him.

They manage to make it nearly to Lawrence by nightfall, traveling in silence much like before, but Dean finds himself drifting closer to Cas as they walk. He wants to be as close as he can. As Dean sets up his bedroll, Cas digs through his supplies from Ellen and Bobby to find his own, but comes up empty. He is considering transfiguring his cloak into a makeshift bedroll when Dean nudges him.

“Look, we should probably keep watch tonight, so, uh, if you wanted we could, you know . . .” He scrubs his hand over his face roughly, trying to keep his nerves in check. Cas’s eyes widen immediately in understanding.

“One set up is more efficient to pack, if you think about it,” Cas offers. Dean accepts it gratefully

After a quick supper of well-wrapped leftovers, Dean volunteers to keep the first watch. As Cas climbs into the clean, warm makeshift bed, Dean sets himself up against a tree, watching Cas’s face gently lit by the small mage light he left in a jar nearby. Dean wonders what Cas is truly thinking about the story he’d told earlier.

Dean knows that the closer they get to their destination, the further the Mark is going to drive him from his own sanity. It probably won’t be long until he loses any of the feelings he’d ever had for Cas. Sam thinks he can overcome it, that there is a failsafe built into the spell, but Dean isn’t sure. If John really is dead, then that means Dean is going to inherit all of the Mark’s power and wrath. He needs Cas to be far away before that happens. Perhaps if they can cast the spell from a distance, Dean can go into the valley alone.

He’s been preparing his whole life for this, and he still has no idea what he’s walking into.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel wakes some time later to a gentle hand on his back. He groans, turning to nuzzle into the warm, comfortable bed beneath him. It smells comforting, and he feels protected within its embrace. Someone above him chuckles.

“Okay, sunshine, time to get up,” a deep, quiet voice drones. He grunts when he’s shaken again, this time swatting at whoever is attempting to wake him. “Damn, you are _not_ a morning person.”

Castiel shifts deeper into the bed, barely registering a deep sigh from whoever is trying to wake him. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to be left alone, but then a firm, warm body slides into the bedroll next to him. His heart starts to beat faster as the person behind him—Dean, his brain acknowledges slowly—wiggles into the small space and presses up against his back. He feels Dean’s back against his own before he falls back into a light sleep.

It can’t be more than an hour or two later before Castiel rouses again, blinking against sunlight. He wonders why Dean didn’t wake him for his watch for just a moment before realizing that there is an arm wrapped around his chest. He can’t control how fast his heart starts beating as he realizes Dean is pressed up against his back, holding him tightly in his arms. His chest aches at the closeness; he tries to stay as still as possible to keep from waking Dean, though he knows they’ll need to get moving soon. Instead, he lets himself indulge in it, just for a moment.

The gangly teen that showed up on his doorstep grew into an extremely handsome, noble man, and despite what Dean thinks of himself, Castiel knows that Dean is one of the best men in the kingdom. It doesn’t matter what his past holds, or whether or not he has magical talent; Castiel would trade any of his brothers for Dean’s company any day.

He told Dean when he’d considered him a friend, but he hadn’t told him that that’s when he fell in love with him, too.

Dean stirs behind Castiel, and he knows that whatever they are walking into today, Dean will never know how Castiel feels.

“’Morning,” Dean says, pressing his face into the back of Castiel’s neck. Castiel freezes, waiting for Dean to realize what he’s doing. But Dean doesn’t stop, and Castiel shivers as he’s sure he feels the brush of Dean’s lips against his hairline.

“Dean . . .” he croaks, hoping to wake Dean before the situation becomes even more mortifying. Dean stops, stilling behind him.

“Cas?” he breathes.

“Yes,” Cas answers.

“I—are you . . . shit, Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean says, pulling away. Regret spears Castiel’s stomach as Dean pushes back and climbs out of bed. “Um, breakfast on the road today,” he says. Castiel turns over just in time to watch Dean adjust his trousers. Castiel will have to be careful when he rises to not have Dean notice that he’s in the same situation.

They travel through more forest around the outskirts of Lawrence. As a fairly large city, it would be easy for travelers to blend in, but Castiel’s magic and appearance are more likely to be noticed. The valley they seek is another day’s travel north of the city. Dean knows his way through the woods easily enough, and it’s only dinner time when they stop again. This time, rather than finding a campsite, Dean leads them to a long-abandoned cabin nearly reclaimed by the trees. Castiel recognizes the magical signature surrounding it.

“Has Sam been here?” he asks. Dean looks at him strangely, then laughs.

“I always forget you guys can sense each other’s power. It’s kinda creepy. Yeah, Sammy fixed this up for me. I stay here on long jobs. I figure we’re making the final stretch tomorrow, might as well get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

Castiel isn’t sure how they’re going to get a good night’s sleep in the run-down cabin, but he knows better than to judge by appearances.

Sure enough, the interior of the cabin is whole and cozy. A low fire is burning in the hearth of the single-room dwelling. There is a small sitting area near the fire, and a sizeable bed covered in what look like fresh sheets. Castiel didn’t realize how much he was craving a real bed until he saw one, and nearly whimpers at the idea of sleeping in it tonight. Until he realizes . . .

“We’re going to stay here tonight?” he asks. Dean nods, taking off his weapons and checking them before laying them all out on the table. “Oh. I suppose I can take the bedroll.” Dean looks up sharply at him.

“Why? Don’t know if you noticed, Cas, but we’ve kinda been sharing my bedroll for the last few nights. There’s way more room in that bed. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

Castiel isn’t sure whether he wants that or not, but he feels a blush creep up his cheeks just the same. He doesn’t miss the odd look that crosses Dean’s face before he looks away.

“There’s a well out back with fresh water. I’m gonna wash up, if you want to?”

Castiel peels himself out of his traveling boots, setting them next to the door. “That sounds wonderful,” he says. Dean stands watching him for another moment, hovering, before thinking better of whatever was going through his head and moving out of the door.

Once he’s free of his traveling clothes, Castiel walks around the small cabin. For the most part, it is bare of any personal effects, but there are a few trinkets on shelves in the sitting area, including a ceramic angel watching over the room. Castiel runs his fingertips along the edge of the shelves, the magic protecting the cabin repelling dust so each surface is clean. The furniture and floors are well-worn, but lovingly maintained. The whole air of the cabin has a lived-in, loved feeling that makes Castiel wonder what its story is.

The door opens and Dean comes back in with a bucket full of water. Castiel steps away from the wall to help him.

“I got it,” Dean says, but then nearly drops the bucket as he hisses in pain, grasping at his arm.

“Dean, what is it?” Castiel asks, taking the bucket from him. Dean clenches and unclenches his fist, breathing deeply. “Is this something to do with what happened the first night?”

“Sorta,” is all Dean volunteers.

“I can heal it again, if you’d like,” Castiel says, reaching out for him. He licks his lips, remember how close they’d been that first night. Magic tingles on the tips of his fingers, eager to reach out for Dean.

“It ain’t somethin’ you can heal,” Dean murmurs. Castiel continues to reach for him, anyway.

“Can I try?” Dean hesitates, then nods. Castiel pulls his power to his palms, the way he had that night, gathering his strength to press into Dean. That first time, he’d simply touched his shoulder through Dean’s shirt, but it would be more effective through the skin . . .

The moment Castiel’s hand makes contact with Dean’s wrist, Dean gasps, and Castiel’s heart pounds in his ears. His magic reaches out for Dean with little effort. He has to be careful to direct it toward what he wants to heal. It’s more tangible this time, a swirling mass of dark energy concentrated on Dean’s arm. While Dean welcomes him, this repels him. The harder he pushes, the harder it pushes back. The center of it is so dark that it hurts Castiel to look at it, but he can’t give up. With a deep breath, he weaves as much magic as he safely can into Dean’s body and targets that central void—

“Cas!”

Castiel blinks, his vision clearing to find himself being held up by Dean, his hand still locked around Dean’s wrist. It takes him a moment to realize they’re both breathing hard, Dean’s chest under Castiel’s cheek. Carefully, Castiel pushes himself up to standing, meeting Dean’s eyes, full of concern.

“Did that help?” Castiel manages. Dean laughs nervously.

“Yeah,” he says, though Castiel doesn’t quiet believe him. “Yeah, it helped. Five hells, Cas, you can’t push yourself like that, especially not with what we have to face tomorrow.”

Castiel swallows, distracted a bit by Dean’s lips so close. The energy between them might be residual from Castiel’s magic, but he isn’t entirely sure. “Is it anything like that?” he asks.

Dean’s eyes grow hard. “What did you see?”

“A void. An endless, dark void that nothing can penetrate.” Castiel takes Dean’s hands in both of his own. “What are we facing? What is happening to you?”

For a moment Dean looks more vulnerable than Castiel has ever seen him, and he wants to crush him to his chest and keep him safe from everything. His face hardens and he seems to come to a decision.

“You really want to know?” he asks.

“Please, Dean.”

His eyes dart away to look anywhere but Castiel’s face as he rolls up his shirt sleeve. The Mark is growing darker by the day.

“I usually avoid looking at it, if I can help it,” he says, holding it out for Castiel to investigate.

It’s ugly, is the first thing Castiel thinks. The second is that it looks sinister, and though it’s obviously not a scar, it doesn’t look like it belongs on Dean’s perfect skin, either. “It’s a curse mark,” he says.

“Yup. Started showing up a few days ago. My, uh . . . my dad had one just like it. It’s tied to the bloodline.”

“What does it mean?” Castiel asks. Dean laughs.

“It means I’m cursed. Every generation the oldest Winchester is cursed to carry a burden, ever since the first darkness invaded Winchester Wood. It isn’t affecting me much right now, but that’s because my dad did something stupid, or at least Bobby thinks so. And in order to fix it, we’re either going to free my family forever, or the curse is going to consume me until there’s nothing of _me_ left.”

Castiel watches the bitterness cross Dean’s face, but before he can respond, Dean tugs his sleeve back down and steps back.

“C’mon, Cas. Let’s get cleaned up and something to eat,” he says, leading Castiel to put the bucket on the stove. Castiel takes his cue to drop the topic and lights the coals and heats the stovetop so it isn’t stone cold, but he doesn’t have the power reserves to do much more than that. Dean leads him over to a chair to rest while he gets their bath water and dinner ready.

Dean wipes down first, standing in just his underclothes, before giving Castiel the privacy to do the same. Castiel tries to avoid thinking about anything to do with Dean undressing while he uses the lukewarm water to wipe dust and grime from his body. Dean comes back once Castiel is done to warm up more of Ellen’s provisions before they sit in the sitting area to eat.

“I hope that Sam is doing all right,” Castiel wonders idly.

“I’m sure he’s fine. We haven’t even been gone a week yet. Besides, his glamors are pretty much famous. He spent a lot of time pretending to be me to get out of chores as a kid.”

Castiel smiles at the thought. “You grew up with Ellen and Bobby?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, eyes drifting around the cabin. “We actually lived here first, after . . . when we first came to stay with them.”

He notices the pause, but Castiel doesn’t push. “It’s a bit cramped for two adults and two growing boys,” he says instead.

“Jo lived with them then, too. Ellen’s daughter. She’s a blacksmith out in Carthage, now. Does a good business; her swords are imbued with her magic. They don’t dull or chip.”

Castiel gestures to the sword with Dean’s things against the bed. “Is that one of hers?”

“Yup, that’s my Baby. She’s been with me a long time.”

“It’s a beautiful sword.”

“_She_, Cas. My Baby is a _lady_.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but Dean’s are dancing with laughter. “You’re incorrigible,” Castiel laments fondly. Dean grins.

“_You’re_ incorrigible,” he counters.

The light disappears in the windows, and Castiel casts a small mage light so they can see to go to bed. Dean leads him there with a look, quelling any protest. He pulls back the covers and slides in, leaving Castiel to do the same. Once they’re settled, Castiel extinguishes the light and lays in the dark watching Dean, who watches him back.

“I can’t recite a spell that’s going to curse you forever,” Castiel whispers.

“It’s the only way, Cas.” He hesitates, then says, “Sam and Bobby, they think you’re my Colette.”

“Who was she?” Castiel asks.

“The Winchester son who survived, he locked away the darkness in the wood. He wasn’t able to save it, but he saved the rest of the world from being consumed. But it created the curse. He didn’t have magic of his own, so the one who cast the spell was his wife. Her love for him was what created the strength of the spell. Her name was Colette.”

Castiel’s stomach is in knots. “The key to an evil curse is . . . love?” he breathes. A long moment passes between them until Dean reaches out to gently touch Castiel’s cheek.

“I’m glad you’re with me, Cas,” Dean replies. It isn’t an answer, and it makes Castiel unbelievably sad.

It feels inevitable, in the end, as Dean drifts forward, for Castiel’s eyes to drift closed as Dean brushes their lips together. Castiel shivers at the contact, reaching out to run a hand through Dean’s hair, pulling him back in for a firmer kiss as Dean whispers, “Cas . . .”

Kissing Dean is like coming home. A piece of him was missing, and now Castiel is whole for what feels like the first time in his life. Dean’s kisses are gentle, but insistent, one hand planted next to Castiel’s head and the other tracing down his cheek as he presses him into the bed. His tongue teases at Castiel’s, deepening the kiss; it’s not close enough, not nearly close enough . . .

Dean gasps against Castiel’s mouth as Castiel sends a trickle of magic through him, just enough to tingle.

“Gods, do that again,” Dean moans, throwing his head back. Castiel uses the opportunity to kiss his way down Dean’s throat, fingers dancing with sparks down his exposed arms. “You feel so good, Cas.”

Castiel feels warm down to his core to hear that, wrapping his arms around Dean as he settles over the top of him. They kiss until Castiel’s lips are numb and his cock is nudging against Dean’s hip. Dean shifts, moving his hands to pin Castiel’s wrists to the bed, and Castiel moans at the friction. Dean pulls back and lifts an eyebrow, slowly grinding his hips against Castiel’s. Castiel bites his lip, flexing his fingers within Dean’s grasp, a long, high-pitched whine easing from him as Dean rocks.

“Dean . . .” Castiel manages, sending another wave of sparks through Dean. Dean grinds harder, moaning at the feeling of magic zipping through his veins. Castiel knows what he feels; every sharp press of their hips together sends a shudder through him.

“I want you, Cas,” Dean whispers, thrusting down into him, their cocks grinding together in a frustrating rhythm. “Have since forever. Want you so much.”

“Oh, Dean,” is all Castiel can say, freeing a wrist so he can trail fingertips over Dean’s lower lip. Dean catches them lightly in his teeth before sucking his index and middle fingers slowly into his mouth. Castiel’s breath hitches as he lets Dean slide his mouth up and down over his fingers, swirling his tongue around them. He’s achingly hard now, bucking up to meet Dean’s thrusts as he slides his fingers out of Dean’s mouth. Dean looks bereft at the loss, and Castiel can’t help but kiss him again.

It should be too much, it should feel like a mistake, but Castiel wants everything with Dean and he isn’t sure he’ll have it beyond tomorrow.

“Last night on Earth,” Castiel says against Dean’s lips, cupping Dean’s face with both hands. “Do you have plans?” Dean smirks.

“That’s my line,” he says before diving back in to kiss him again.

It doesn’t take long after that to divest each other of their tunics, and then there’s leagues of bare skin to explore with mouths and hands. Castiel presses Dean back into the mattress, running his hands over his skin as he laps at a quickly-budding nipple. Dean gasps, so Castiel does it again.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean whimpers, clutching at his shoulders. Castiel spends another moment on the left nipple before moving over to Dean’s right, brushing the pebbled one he left behind with his thumb. Dean’s stomach muscles are quivering when he flips them over and makes Castiel writhe and whine when Dean sucks a series of bruises along his collar bone.

Their trousers are discarded next, and Castiel groans when their hot cocks make contact, thrusting into the crevice of Dean’s hip.

“Please,” Castiel pants, not knowing quite what he wants. Dean presses soft kisses into his throat and dives back in to devour his mouth as he reaches down and wraps his big hand around both of them.

Dean strokes in time with Castiel’s languid thrusts, bringing them closer to the edge together. By the time his orgasm rushes toward him, Castiel no longer has much control over his magic, and it’s tethering them together so once one falls over the edge, the other follows quickly after, sending them spiraling with pleasure until they finally collapse in each other’s arms, completely spent.

Once they’re cleaned up, Castiel holds Dean until he falls asleep, dragging his fingers through Dean’s hair long into the night.

“I love you,” he breathes into the darkness.

Castiel wakes the next morning to a cold, empty bed. He stretches in the light coming in through the windows, feeling better rested than he has in nearly a week. There’s the smell of something delicious warming on the stove in the air, and Castiel smiles to himself for just a moment. He thinks about mornings spent in the Bunker, cold and academic, shuffling to the kitchen to be rewarded with whatever the Novice brothers had managed not to completely ruin when they cooked early in the morning. He indulges in the fantasy of perhaps keeping a cabin like this, or a small house somewhere in Lebanon, where he and Dean could spend time together. And even, perhaps, one day they could live in a cottage or cabin just like this, together.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Castiel rolls over one more time to find Dean and face the day.

“Dean?” he calls. But the tiny cabin is empty. He thinks for a moment that Dean might have gone out for something, but then he checks the wall where Dean had left Baby last night to see that she’s gone. His heart plummets as he throws his tunic on to cover his nakedness and rushes around the cabin, looking for some sign of where Dean has gone.

And he truly has _gone_.

But . . . he wouldn’t be able to do anything without Castiel reading the spell? Frantically, he dashes to his bag to check its contents.

“No, no, no, no,” he murmurs. His bag is empty. Everything Bobby had given them, all of the incantations and potions and instruments they would need to do the level of magic expected, were gone.

Dean didn’t have magic! How could he possibly do the spell without him? There wasn’t any way that Dean could do anything on his own.

Questions whirl through Castiel’s mind as he rushes through throwing his clothes on. He grabs everything he brought with him, even the empty bag from Bobby’s, before throwing himself out of the cabin and into the woods.

He’s rushing through the trees for nearly twenty minutes before he realizes that he has no idea where he’s going. “Shit,” he curses, making himself stop. He can cast some kind of tracking spell, either on Dean or on the location, but it’s going to take some concentration and he has to calm down first in order to do it.

The woods around him are far too quiet aside from his own breathing as he stands silent, reaching out with tendrils of power until he feels a faint trace of something left behind. He latches onto it, weaving an incantation into the air until he gets a distinct _tug_. Whatever he’s found, it has the same dark feeling as the void within Dean and he knows it has to be the same source. Hoping that it’s the same thing that Dean is chasing, he hurries off after it.

After the long journey with Dean, this final push is exhausting, but Castiel keeps going, sometimes stopping to check that he’s going in the right direction. It’s a move he has to do less frequently as he gets closer to his destination. He isn’t sure how much of a head start Dean has; as the miles stretch on and he grows more fatigued, he’s worried that he might not even be going in the right direction.

The ground under his feet slowly begins a gradual incline that grows steeper as he travels. Hoping that means he’s following the right path, he climbs. It grows darker as he does, though the sun should barely be past mid-day.

“Please help me find him,” Castiel asks, though he’s not sure who.

As the light dims to a faint gray glow, he crests the top of the hill and looks down at the valley below him.

Stull Valley is a long stretch of dead trees between the soft swell of fertile hills on either side. The rise Castiel stands on is one of the small ridges helping to fortify the vale that made it so desirable for the Winchesters so long ago. But as Castiel looks down over it, all he can see is a swirling, dark mass of black smoke. And it is oozing power, a darker and more overwhelming version of what was concentrated in Dean.

“You won’t find him out here.”

Castiel startles and nearly loses his balance at the voice beside him. A beautiful woman with long brown hair stands just outside the smoke. Castiel readies himself for attack.

“What have you done with Dean?” he demands. She raises her eyebrows.

“With Dean? I haven’t done anything with _Dean_.”

“Give him back to me, or I will destroy you,” Castiel growls.

“I told you already, I don’t ‘have’ him. He’s down there,” she says, gesturing at the smoke. “Go directly toward the center; that is where he’ll be. Find him if you can, but be warned, Castiel. I’m watching.”

He knits his brows in confusion. “Who are you?” he asks, but before he can even finish the question, she’s gone.

_Find Dean_, he tells himself, sending his power into his fingertips to face what lies below.

The incline isn’t steep, but the moment he crosses the line into the valley, he’s engulfed in darkness. Any attempts at casting light are thwarted, so at first he’s simply stumbling around in the dark. It takes him a long time to make his way through the trees, climbing through them as they appear. He isn’t sure if he’s close, because any hope he had of sensing Dean in this swirling darkness is dashed when it overwhelms him.

Despair weighs heavy on him as he trudges forward. _Why are you trying so hard to save Dean, anyway?_ his brain demands.

_You barely know him._

_He’s clearly lied to you._

_He’s using you._

_You should turn back._

Castiel shakes his head to clear it, willing the voices away. “I love him,” he grits out. The despair lifts a fraction, allowing him to press on.

Before long, voices start drifting toward him from ahead. They’re angry, and distinctly male. He moves faster, trying to catch up to them. The vines in front of him are harder to tear through, the darkness around him thwarting any attempts to use his powers. The voices are growing louder, though, so Castiel knows he’s getting closer, that he has to be—

He stumbles through the tree lines and into a clearing, lit just enough for him to see Dean’s crumpled form laying beside a stone well.

“Dean!” Castiel calls, rushing to him. He pulls Dean up into a sitting position, trying to rouse him with gentle taps to his face. There’s blood on his temple, and Castiel fears the worst. “Oh, Dean, why didn’t you wait for me?”

He focuses his magic onto the single point of Dean’s injury, and mutters a brief thanks to whatever gods are listening that it heals. Dean groans as Castiel wipes the blood away, his other hand still cradling Dean’s face.

“Cas?” Dean croaks, squinting at him through the haze.

“We have to go,” Castiel says. “We’ll regroup, try again.” Dean shakes his head.

“It’s too late, he’s . . . I’m the lock . . . have to try again,” Dean mutters.

“You’re not making sense,” Castiel says desperately. “Where’s the spell? I can read the spell—”

Dean huffs a laugh, that turns into a cough. “Not gonna let you,” he mumbles, reaching for Castiel.

“Let me?” Castiel repeats. “That’s why I’m here, that’s the whole point. We have to fix this, whatever your father broke, that’s why we came all this way . . .”

Dean runs a trembling finger over Castiel’s bottom lip, smiling slightly. “You’re beautiful, Cas,” he says weakly. Castiel swallows around a lump in his throat.

“What do I need to do?” Castiel asks. Dean drags the spell Bobby had given them from his lap.

“It’s a containment spell,” Dean whispers. “Gotta . . . gotta use it on me. ‘S how we fix it.”

“But your father, he—”

“He’s dead, and a fool,” Dean replies bitterly. “Can’t change it. ‘S fate.”

“Fuck fate,” Castiel spits. Dean laughs.

“Man, do I love you,” he breathes. Castiel grasps onto him more tightly.

“I love you, too, Dean,” he declares. “More than anything.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

“_Read it_.”

“I _can’t_.”

Dean lifts both hands to frame Castiel’s face. His forearm is bare, the shadow of a mark on the inside, near his elbow. Castiel hates it.

“You can, and you will. It ain’t gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

“But it will change you,” Castiel chokes. “You won’t be Dean anymore. You won’t want me anymore.”

Dean smiles a little. “Baby, I’ll always want you.”

Castiel opens his mouth again to protest, but Dean silences him with a firm kiss. “Cas, if you don’t do this, the entire world is gonna be destroyed. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

“Then why did you come here alone?” Castiel demands. Dean looks sheepish.

“I didn’t want it to have to be you,” he says quietly, then gestures to his bloodstained head. “You see how well that worked out.” Dean shifts forward, wincing as he takes both of Castiel’s hands in his. “I’d be with you forever if I could, Cas, you gotta know that, but it ain’t in the cards for us. You do this, I’m gonna be with you as long as . . . as long as I can, before . . .”

“I’ll stay with you forever,” Castiel gasps.

“Read the spell,” Dean says, sitting as straight as he can. “Save the world. For me.”

With trembling hands, Castiel holds the parchment as steady as he can, reading the words in stilted syllables. They’re thick and guttural, and have no place between them when their kisses had been so sweet. Dean grimaces in pain as he reads, until finally he recites the last word, finishing with dread. For a moment, it seems like everything is all right, but as Castiel reaches for Dean, Dean starts to scream and Castiel’s whole vision goes white. The last thing he remembers is Dean’s scream echoing in his ears.


	6. Epilogue

Dean’s head is aching like it’s been split in two by a meat cleaver, but he’s more alive than he thought he’d be a few days ago. At least, he’s pretty sure it’s only been a few days. Waking up in the Bunker’s infirmary had been the first surprise of many over the last few hours.

“Good, you’re finally awake,” Sam had said before promptly smacking him with a large book. “Don’t bitch, it’s only ‘cause you’re in a hospital bed that I didn’t punch you in the face.”

Sam hasn’t passed his healer’s exams yet, which is good because Dean is convinced he’d make the worst nursemaid. Even then, he’s been in the infirmary next to Dean’s bedside whenever his studies have allowed.

Cas hasn’t visited yet.

“I’m sure he’ll come, Dean,” Sam says.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean replies.

He doesn’t.

According to a chipper healer named Charlie (who spends an entire afternoon lamenting the sexist nature of the all-male Society of Letters and sneaks Dean slices of pie), Cas made it back to Lebanon on foot, though he was badly shaken and had serious injuries that needed tending. Apparently, he wouldn’t tell anyone anything that happened, but instead has been holed up in his study alone.

“Which is weird, even for him,” Charlie says before launching into a description of the hubbub they caused when they showed up at the gate.

By the time Dean is declared fully healed, the mark on his arm a mere shadow compared to what it had been just days before, he’s itching to get out and _do_ something. He spars with Sam in one of the courtyards, teasing his little brother about how soft and slow he’s gotten, which is satisfying until Sam sweeps Dean’s feet out from under him and spends the next hour gloating.

Late one night, Dean is tossing and turning in the room the Society has so graciously offered him—since he saved the world and everything—when he decides enough is enough. He gets out of bed and pads quietly down the hallway toward Cas’s study. He glances for a moment at the ancient instruments still and quiet on their wall, the smoke having disappeared when Cas recited the spell. He gives them a wide berth before heading down the hall to knock on Cas’s door.

He’s only been down here once or twice, Cas preferring to keep his private space particularly private. He knocks firmly, waiting.

Cas opens the door and Dean almost gasps out loud. He looks _exhausted_. His hair is a mess, and he has deep purple smudges under his eyes. He practically melts when he sees Dean.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, leaning against the door.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replies. “Can I come in?”

Cas nods, letting Dean in and shutting the door. There are books spread all over Cas’s workspace full of languages Dean can’t read and diagrams he doesn’t understand. He moves to the back, turning to face Cas who is still hovering near the door.

“You look well,” Dean says, wincing when Cas glares. “Okay, you look like shit. How have you been?”

“Fine,” Cas says, crossing his arms. Dean takes in a deep breath.

“Thank you for bringing me back here,” Dean says. Cas shrugs.

“Of course.”

The moments tick past in silence as Dean looks at the books Cas has open. “What’re you researching?” he asks idly.

“How to reverse ancient curses,” Cas replies firmly.

Dean opens his mouth to ask, then realizes . . . “Uh, you don’t have to,” Dean says, holding out his arm and rolling up his sleeve. Cas winces away, but then Dean reveals his inner elbow and moves closer. “See? It’s gone.”

Cas grabs hold of Dean’s arm and yanks him close. “How is this . . . is it real?”

“Haven’t had any, uh, _episodes_ I guess.”

“No . . . no ill effects?” Cas asks, tracing a finger lightly over the sensitive skin on Dean’s arm. He shivers.

“None,” he breathes. “You saved me, Cas.”

“I didn’t,” Cas counters. “And just because it isn’t visible doesn’t mean it can’t come back. Dean, that mark felt . . . I can’t describe just how _deep_ it went—and that woman I saw, who was she? I don’t think this is over, Dean.”

“Then we figure it out,” Dean says. He takes a deep breath and reaches out to cup Cas’s cheek. Cas leans into his hand, giving Dean courage. “Cas, I don’t want to live afraid anymore. I want to start something, start living for me instead. And I thought, maybe . . . if you wanted . . . I could do that with you.”

Cas’s mouth drops open a little. “I want that, too,” he says simply. Dean grins.

“Then what do you say, Cas? Wanna find a future with me?”

Cas’s answering smile is brighter than the sun. “Yes,” he says, pulling Dean in for a deep, delicious kiss.

For the first time, Dean feels like he is the master of his own future, and he knows exactly how he wants to spend it: kissing Cas until the end of their days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I hope that you enjoyed it!


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